


Gloria In Excelsis

by feelslikefire



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Barebacking, Bond is a shady fuck, Even though he means well, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 07:23:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feelslikefire/pseuds/feelslikefire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q has a dirty secret; Bond has an attraction and now he's got the excuse to act on it. Smut featuring glory hole(s).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gloria In Excelsis

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Gloria In Excelsis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/914298) by [ogawaryoko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ogawaryoko/pseuds/ogawaryoko)



> Apologies for a) the awful title (I couldn't resist) and b) the mangled Latin. Dear Latin professor, I done you wrong. 
> 
> Love and kisses go to make_a_move for the Britpicks, and to circ_bamboo for the beta. All remaining mistakes or stupidness are entirely mine.

Bond steps into the shop, hands going automatically to straighten the cuff links on his shirt as he lets the door swing shut behind him. He glances around, his disinterested expression belying the way he cases the room automatically, checking for exits, for points where someone might hide, for objects with possible application as weapons.

But he isn't here on a mission--well, not an official one--and while the Red Room certainly qualifies as a den of iniquity, it isn't of a type that Bond cares to bust. Not today.

"Hello, sir," says the bespectacled man behind the counter. He looks up at Bond from the skin mag he's been reading, but when all Bond does is nod in his direction, he goes back to his porn. Bond spares a moment to wonder how an employee of a place like this could still be hard-up enough to read pornography on his shift at work when he must be literally surrounded by it every day, and then puts it out of his mind. Unless his research has led him badly astray, he doesn't have to care about such things.

He doesn’t have to care about impressing anyone today. He couldn’t bring himself to dress as sleazily as might have been advisable to avoid any notice at all, but he did choose one of his more subdued grey suits as a compromise. He brings the Walther PPK in its modified shoulder holster, because he doesn’t know for certain that there won’t be a call to use it.

Bond moves quickly through the main room, passing rows of DVDs, magazines, impossibly thin mannequins wearing lingerie so scanty it barely qualifies as an article of clothing, heading for the door covered by a curtain of red beads at the back of the room. This is where his real target lies.

_"Your new Quartermaster is so precious, 007," sneered Tartakoff. He stroked a hand lovingly over the gun Q had sent Bond with, the one coded only to Bond's palm. "Pity that such a clever, charming boy finds it necessary to suck stranger's cocks in a filthy bathroom stall, don't you think?"_

Ninety seconds later, Tartakoff was dead. Bond hadn't waited for the exploding gun to go off in his enemy's face; Tartakoff had died with Bond's hands around his neck, eyes bulging in his skull from lack of air. Bond is just glad that his ear piece had already been damaged beyond repair at that point, and that Q hadn't overheard.

Q. Enigmatic, brilliant little bastard, the source of all Bond's current problems. He's been dithering over what to do for---months now, actually, which is pathetic. He'd realised his attraction almost immediately, and that was fine; the realisation of the affection came later, and with significantly more frustration. It had gotten so bad that, before this most recent mission, Bond had taken Moneypenny out to dinner in order to ask her for advice. She's one of the only people in MI6 Q considers a close friend, and Bond was more than willing to eat humble pie for an insight into his quartermaster's mind.

Naturally, because it was Moneypenny, it turned out to be a big fucking piece of pie. But her advice had been more than worth it, all sorts of gems about Q’s favorite hobbies and such. Too bad he hadn’t had a chance to apply any of it.

The information from Tartakoff has forced Bond's hand. If it was true--and he had since confirmed it to be true within almost a shadow of a doubt--then Q is compromised. It is no longer true to say that Bond doesn't care what Q does in his free time, but if their enemies have become aware of Q's 'hobby' then Q is in danger. Bond won't risk Q's career or the loss of his brilliant mind to MI6 (or the shame he knows it would cause his proud little quartermaster) by confronting him about it through proper channels, so he's here to find out the truth of things himself, and to make certain of Q's safety.

That's what he's been telling himself, anyway. But Bond lives by his ability to slip between lies and truth, and he cannot black out the memory of last night, when he'd come so hard in his shower that his knees had given out from under him, stroking himself to the mental image of Q's plump, swollen lips around his cock, separated by a grungy laminate wall. He could broach this with Q some other way, but instead, he’s come himself to see. 

Bond ducks through the plastic beads into a tawdry back tavern, air heavy with the tang of spilled beer, urine, and the unmistakable stink of sex; it’s not even 9 pm, but already people are gyrating in the space for dancing in the room’s centre. The music is so loud that he feels the bass in his rib cage, fighting with his heartbeat for primacy. He keeps walking, looking neither to the left nor the right, continuing through the maze of rooms that make up this establishment. The Red Room is bordering on the very edge of legality, with its dance floors, its rooms of bondage furniture, and its bar that supposedly offers more than just the average stock of high-priced liquor, but as it does not traffic in the sex trade---Bond has made damn sure of that---then he does not care what dubious things these consenting adults do with each other.

He only cares about Q.

He finds the room he is looking for on the second floor, behind an unobtrusive door that has a dirty variation of a typical lavatory sign on it. Bond slips inside, letting the door swing shut behind him, and stops.

There are six stalls in here, plus two actual urinals (he cannot imagine having a piss while listening to the sound of some bloke having his cock sucked, but it takes all kinds, apparently); four of the six stalls have the red "occupied" sign indicated. From the sounds of things, at least one gent in here is already enjoying some attention.

Bond wets his lips; the door second from the right, the one he wants, is unoccupied. The door farthest to the right, the one he cares about, has the red sign on the door.

He spares a moment to reflect on what he might have done if he'd come in here and found some other man in the stall adjacent to Q's, and decides that it's best for everyone involved that they'll never find out.

Bond glances once more along the line of stalls, but they're the full-length kind; no feet are visible, to preserve anonymity as much as possible. Then he moves to the empty stall, stepping inside and locking it carefully behind him. The stall walls are made of your typical greenish laminated steel; there is a hole cut into the wall at about hip-height, and Bond is somehow amused to see that it's been lined with some kind of thin plastic film, no doubt to prevent one's cock from getting too chapped.

He's still staring at the hole when he sees a finger appear through it, curling gently against the rim of the hole; the finger is long and slim, the nail carefully trimmed and clean. It's stupid, but Bond recognizes the digit instantly. He should, from the number of times the attached hand has shown him how to work some intricate but dangerous device.

Bond moves without thinking, crouching and taking the finger in his hand, and sucks it into his mouth in one quick movement. He hears the sharp gasp through the wall, and he shuts his eyes, sucking greedily at that finger, licking wet and dirty along its length, suckling at it like a straw. A muffled moan follows the gasp, and Bond can picture Q's face perfectly, his face red, glasses shoved against his arm as he crouches by the hole in the wall on the other side, his stance a mirror image of Bond's. Bond pulls back after a moment, releasing Q's finger, and he stays where he is as the finger circles his lips, tracing the outline of Bond's mouth with a tenderness that Bond wonders if he's imagining. He presses a kiss to the pad of Q's fingertip anyway, and then the finger withdraws.

It takes Bond a moment to get to his feet, because he's finding himself shaken, overcome with the urge to break down the door of the stall Q's in and drag him home now, to wrap him up in Bond's bed and not let him out for days and days. It's humbling, realising exactly how long it's been since he's wanted someone this badly. And there's the dirty impulse to find out how Q sucks the cocks of the men he can't see, wants to know how his prim, proper little quartermaster gives it up behind the veil of anonymity. He knows it’s shameful to take advantage of Q’s ignorance this way, but now he’s so close that he can’t bring himself to stop. So he opens his trousers with an unsteady hand, bringing out his achingly hard dick, and then braces himself against the wall with his other arm, guiding his erection through that hole.

A warm hand wraps around his cock, stroking it once, pulling his foreskin back from the glans, and Bond swears into his arm as a hot mouth follows, slurping audibly over the head of his cock. He shudders hard, pressing his face against his forearm as Q flicks him with the tip of his tongue, pressing it teasingly into the slit of Bond's cock. "Fhhhk," he spits, and presses his hips vainly against the wall. He's abruptly and horribly frustrated by his inability to get his hand in Q's mop of black hair, or see how his lips look, wrapped around Bond's cock, his stupid doe-eyes black as tar with lust. Bond can picture it so vividly that he groans again, and as if in response to his noises Q starts sucking him down, taking inch by inch of him in until the whole of Bond's prick is encased in that wet, filthy heat.

Bond grits his teeth, thrusting shallowly against Q's mouth as Q starts to bob his head, and somehow the fact of not being able to see Q makes his noises that much dirtier. He’s aware of the chill of the wall, the residual grime on the surfaces in this room, the half-empty bin of condoms on the shelf lining the back of the stall. He can also hear the sound of someone new entering the room and getting into the stall two spots over, and it brings to the fact to sharp attention that Q must have done this for any other number of men, sucked them down so sweetly and so well right here in this dirty fucking booth.

The idea burns him. He can only guess at why Q does it, what itch it scratches for him, but suddenly, he's shaking.

Bond wants to hold Q's head still and fuck his mouth until he's crying, until his lips are red and stretched around the base of Bond's cock, until the memory and feel of every other man he's sucked in this stall is utterly gone. He wants to obliterate every other person that Q's been with here like this, hunt down and kill the man who brought news of this to Tartakoff. He grunts, nearly choking on his tongue as Q sucks him all the way down again, twisting his hand at the base of Bond's cock as the head presses against the back of Q's throat. 

"Fuck, fuck," he pants, and then Q does something with his tongue and Bond comes, _hard_.

He sags against the wall as he comes down, tasting his heartbeat on the back of his tongue. Q sucks him all down, or most of it, feels like, and then he's pulling off, he's _nuzzling_ Bond's still-hard cock, Bond can feel the soft scrape of his fucking glasses, and then he whispers something so soft that Bond almost misses it.

"James," Q murmurs, the barest exhalation. He probably thinks his nameless visitor can't hear him.

Bond jerks back, staggering slightly, and he's tucking himself (painfully) back into his trousers and pushing out the stall door before he can think or second-guess himself. He grabs for the door to Q's stall, and of course it's locked. "What are you doing?" comes Q's voice from behind the door; his voice has gone high, frightened.

The door to the room opens behind him, and Bond whirls. A man freezes half-through the entrance, staring at him wide-eyed. Whatever he sees in Bond’s face makes him go pale, and he hustles backwards out the door so fast that he trips over his own feet before breaking into an actual run down the hallway, and the door swings shut on him.

Bond grits his teeth and turns back to eye the door to Q’s stall, weighs the chances of there being something in the stall he can use to wedge the door shut. Then he exercises what slim restraint he has left and slides his fingers between the narrow edge of the door frame, nudging the simple slide-lock open and pushing inside.

"Stay back! You get out right-- _oh_." Q breaks off as Bond appears, his eyes too wide behind the frames of his glasses, splotches of color high in his cheeks and throat. He's dressed as he always is at work, hideous tartan trousers with a jumper over a button-down shirt. He's beautiful. Bond shuts the door behind him and locks it. "Oh my god," Q breathes; he's shaking. Bond realises that he's about to start crying.

"Shh," Bond says, and does the only thing he can, which is reach out and pull Q into his arms. He gathers him close and kisses his hair; the violent possessiveness has not gone but if he's not careful Q will bolt. "Shh, it's alright."

"Oh my god," Q says again, and buries his face against Bond's shoulder, trembling against him like a leaf. "How the fuck did you find out? D-does M-- how did you--"

"No one knows but me," Bond interrupts. "No one is going to find out." He catches the back of Q's head in his hand, scratching fingers through his soft dark hair. He smells good up close, like shampoo and some herbal cologne. "And I know because one of our targets knew, somehow, and I had to find out if it was true." He hesitates, hating himself for the lie, and then forces out the truth: "But I came because I need you."

Q pauses, digesting all of that, and Bond can feel a warm hand creeping under his suit jacket, clutching at his hip. Q clears his throat. Bond can almost hear him gathering himself. "Does your exploding pen need fixing? Because I have to say, your timing really is terrible."

Bond smiles, nuzzling Q's temple. "I would have called it a cigar, myself," he murmurs, "but yes, I was hoping you'd help me with it." Q barks a laugh into Bond's chest, and then he actually pulls back, looking up at him with that prissy little smirk Bond is so fond of. His eyes are still suspiciously glassy, but Bond can feel Q's erection against his hip through their pants, and it makes his own prick throb.

"Such a high opinion you have of yourself, James," Q says primly. "Your ego is out of control." Bond cups his face in one hand and kisses that dear smile, and Q melts against him, wrapping an arm around Bond's neck and pressing in for more, opening his mouth to Bond's.

He’d been ready to just take Q home, to spirit him away from this filthy place before asking for what he wants somewhere safe (and most of all _private_ ), but Q’s response is exactly what he’s been craving. It’s a tiny crack that shatters his waning self-control, and suddenly he’s kissing Q harder, he’s crowding Q against the wall and Q is moaning into his mouth, his wiry body thrumming like an engine under Bond’s mouth and hands and Bond can no longer wait. “James,” Q pants, and Bond has to physically stop a moment to keep from just hoisting Q up against the wall and rutting against his arse through their trousers. He’s ready to go again right fucking _now_. 

“Trousers off,” he grinds out, and Q lets go his shoulders to reach down and fumble at the fastenings of his trousers; Bond leans him against the wall and then reaches down to yank those hideous tartan trousers off Q’s legs, taking his shoes with them. Q yelps and stumbles against the wall, his glasses all but falling off his face. Bond smirks as he gets up, undoing his own trousers and bringing his cock out again, reaching for Q as he strokes himself slowly.

“God, let me,” Q murmurs. His voice is wonderfully thick, sounding exactly like he’s just had Bond’s cock all the way down his throat. Q wraps his hand around Bond’s cock and strokes, pressing himself to Bond’s chest again as Bond kisses him thoroughly, thrusting against Q’s skilled fingers. “How athletic are you feeling today, James?”

“Adequately.” Bond palms one of Q’s arsecheeks, squeezing it greedily as he holds Q against him. “I don’t suppose you have any lubricant with you?”

Q smirks against his mouth, cupping fingers against the side of Bond’s neck. “I do, and you won’t need much, as I’m already quite ready for you.”

Bond pulls back, staring down at Q. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” he demands.

Q flushes, but he doesn’t look away. It’s one of the thing that Bond likes most about him, how he won’t back down in the face of basically anything, even when he’s caught badly by surprise. “It means that I had my fingers up my arse while I was sucking your cock, because I was pretending it was yours before I knew who you were,” he says evenly.

There’s a few seconds where all Bond can do is stare; his nostrils flare, and he swallows, and from the look on Q’s face, he must look like he’s about to eat the boy alive. And then he’s kissing Q again, hard, hands going to Q’s hips and lifting him bodily to brace him against the wall, gone hot all over with desperation. He’s filing this moment away with a few other precious ones that he’s saved, stored safely for later when he can replay them over and over and over when he needs something to take his mind away.

“This is your chance for a condom,” he growls into Q’s neck, “speak now or forever hold your peace.”

“Like hell, I want you in me _now_ ,” pants Q, wriggling against him, wanton and eager for it, and Bond is so hard he feels ready to break. He braces Q between him and the wall with his forearm, one of Q’s legs shoved against the stall wall behind Bond, Q reaching down between them to grasp Bond’s erection and guide it to his arsehole. Bond pulls him down hard onto his prick, his groan muffled into Q’s neck as Q just _takes_ it, opening up on his cock so beautifully that Bond very nearly comes right then.

Q’s arms are lashed around his neck for dear life, and Bond can feel him trembling. Q’s lovely swollen prick is trapped against Bond’s stomach, dampening the fabric of his expensive shirt with pre-come. “I’m alright,” he whispers into Bond’s ear as Bond pauses a moment, and he shudders as Q nips his ear. “I’m fucking brilliant.”

“Slut,” Bond grits out. He starts to fuck Q, and there’s no chance of going slow or taking their time, not with how long this has been coming. “God, I had no idea you were such a whore, Q, and all for me.” He pins Q in place and fucks up into him, Q gasping in pleasure as Bond grinds against his body, hitching one of his long legs around Bond’s hip as they fuck. And now that Bond’s started, he can’t stop, can’t seem to care who might hear them at this exact moment, because he needs this. "Did you come here and pretend you were sucking my cock, Q? Is that why you couldn’t look at their faces? Did you wish it was me fucking you through that hole, you wanted me to fill you up, fuck you till you're leaking my come, is that what you want, Q?"

“Fuck!” cries Q, “AH! Y-yes, James, _yes_ —”

Bond growls, hips snapping against Q’s arse as Q’s noises get higher and more desperate, Q breaking open as Bond takes him apart. “Come on my cock, you slut,” he pants, and his voice in his own ears is like gravel, like he’s swallowed a cement mixer, and Q is writhing against the wall, clutching at him like he’s drowning. Bond feels it when Q comes, and presses his face into Q’s neck as Q throws his head back, arching desperately against him, all his muscles seizing around Bond’s cock. It’s what he’s been waiting for. He groans, thrusting a few more times into that tight, welcoming heat, and then he shudders, locking his knees to keep them upright as he lets himself go and empties into Q’s arse, face going slack against Q’s neck.

There’s a few long seconds where all Bond can hear is the sounds of their own rattling breaths, his heartbeat thunderous in his ears. He realises distantly that the rest of the room seems awfully quiet. Then Q is kissing his hair, his temple, gingerly unwinding his leg from Bond’s as he attempts to lower himself down. Bond grunts and takes a long, shaky breath, and then awkwardly lowers Q until Q gets both feet under himself, pulling off of Bond’s softening prick with a small noise. “That computer chair is going to be hell in the morning,” Q says shakily. Bond snorts, and kisses him, slow and sweet.

“You’re going to be quite a bit more sore than you are now, I expect,” he says lightly. Q looks up at him, his face flush with relief and pleasure and other things that warm Bond in places that have been cold for years. Bond kisses him again and then lets Q use him for balance as he tries to get his trousers back on without falling over. They use the silk kerchief Bond keeps in his breast pocket for emergencies to clean themselves up as best they can; it goes into the bin when they’re done. “Best to mention you won’t be coming back on our way out,” Bond adds, almost as an afterthought.

Q looks at him and smiles. “I’ll tender my resignation notice to them immediately,” he says. “I expect you have a computer I can use.”

“I do,” says Bond. “Though it might be a bit antiquated by your standards.”

Q grins. “You’ll find I’m quite fond of antiques,” he says airily, and Bond swats him.

~fin~

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Book cover for Gloria In Excelsis by feelslikefire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/712997) by [catonspeed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catonspeed/pseuds/catonspeed)




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